


A King's Calling

by WriterSine



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Dedue Molinaro - Freeform, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Gen, Grief, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Poverty, descriptions of injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:48:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25813066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterSine/pseuds/WriterSine
Summary: Cornelia's coup has taken the last of Dimitri's family, his kingdom, and even the life of his friend Dedue. Hiding in the Fhirdiad slums, Dimitri decides to put an end to the destruction by killing the source.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	A King's Calling

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the fan album "In Time's Flow", produced through FE3H.FM. 
> 
> You can check out and download the full album, including the music and artwork that accompanies this piece at: https://fe3hfm.bandcamp.com/releases

He wakes to darkness and pain. After his time in the dungeon, Dimitri expects the darkness. The dimness of his cell is gone, replaced with the shadows of a day laborer’s windowless hovel. The pain is new, tearing through his body to spike through his right eye--all that remains of it, at least.

Dimitri lets his eyelid fall shut and inhales. Animal musk, wet earth, straw, and the stink of feces hover under the crisp air. He focuses on the scents. Underneath him is a thin straw mattress covered in rags.

When he’s reined in the pain, Dimitri rolls to his side and takes assessment. The shackles rubbed his wrists and ankles raw. His ribs and right shoulder are bruised. Dried blood from the gash on his knee and shin has plastered his trousers to his skin. His right eye is ruined. 

He’s taken quite the beating, as Glenn would’ve said.

A flash of light illuminates the interior of the hovel. Dimitri turns his neck to see a lean, dark-haired figure standing near the entrance, rimmed in waning sunlight. His eye waters and he blinks the tears away.

“Up, are you?” The figure steps forward and crouches beside him. He’s a thin-faced Duscur man dressed in worn, ragged clothes. “And not a moment too soon. We’ll be ready to move you after sunset.”

“Any-” He starts coughing and the man hurries away to ladle some water from a bucket into a clay cup. The water is a little gritty, and tastes like it’s been standing still all day; but it’s cold and Dimitri’s suddenly so thirsty, it could be blood and he wouldn’t care.

His voice is only a little raspy when he tries to speak again. “Any word of Dedue?”

The man’s grim, thin face becomes bleaker, his lips drawing down from a horizontal line to a frown. He shakes his head. “Nothing. And we can’t wait any longer. If the soldiers come looking for you here, they’ll kill us all.” 

The news hits like a blow to the stomach. On one level Dimitri comprehends the man’s words and nods. On another... _ Dedue must be dead. He died freeing me _ . The words echo through his head over and over. Dimitri wants to weep but the tears don’t come. He can feel his reservoir of sorrow yawning within, but he’s no longer a child. He is a king, a careless one who got his most trusted, loyal friend killed. Dedue deserved better than to die like a dog. Dimitri shudders. Let his sorrow freeze over; he doesn’t deserve the relief of weeping.

“Here’s some food.” Dimitri raises his head to see that the man has left and returned with a bowl of something hot and a large bundle of blue cloth. It clinks as when he sets it down. “He brought this here for you.”

Dimitri takes the clay bowl, its heat soaking into his skin. The man leaves again but Dimitri barely registers it. His gaze is on the bundle.

There are no utensils so Dimitri drinks the watery gruel. It contains a grain he can’t identify by texture and some root vegetables that have been boiled to mush. Once the food is gone, he sets the bowl aside and picks open the knot in the cloth, careful not to tear the fabric. 

At last it falls open to reveal his steel breastplate and pauldrons. The blue cloth is a fur-trimmed cloak.

“Dedue,” he sighs. His heart clenches, and for a moment he can’t breathe as his throat seems to close. 

He can just imagine Dedue’s calm voice.  _ “I knew you would need it, your Highness.” _

Dimitri nods and starts pawing through the pieces looking for his gambeson. He will need the armor, and a weapon too. Let the others play at power games and war; all it’s ever done is fill his life with death. From the moment he saw Edelgard’s face in the Holy Tomb, he’d known. This is personal. He doesn’t have time for Cornelia or armies. He needs to go straight to Edelgard. She has much to pay for, and he is the only witness to the sum.

His gambeson fails to materialize. Breastplate, grieves, arm-guards...all the metal pieces are here, but his quilted coat and pants, as well as his boots and gloves, are gone. A faint roaring fills Dimitri’s ears. His hands curl into fists.

The man returns, the lifting of the flap allowing in the fading daylight. Dimitri’s head shoots up. “Where’s the rest of it?” The words are a growl. 

The man recoils. “What?”

“My boots, gloves, and quilted undersuit. Where are they?”

The man stares at the pile of armor. Then he says, “I think I know,” and disappears out of the door again.

Dimitri pushes to his feet. Head bowed, his shoulders still smack the ceiling of the hovel. He follows the man outside into the cool twilight. The churned earth cold under his bare feet. He stands in the inner ring of a tent and hovel encampment huddled near Fhirdiad’s oute rwall. Ahead is a central fire with people huddled around it. There’s a large calderon on a makeshift wooden spit. A woman joins the group at the fire and ladles out some of the gruel into a bowl. The people watch him warily but avert their gazes when he meets their eyes.

“Walk, you little thieves!” The man reappears leading two young children by the ear. A third, older child, follows. Two girls and a boy. The oldest, a girl, looks to be around twelve. She’s wearing his boots, despite the fact that they are bigger soles than she could ever hope to fill. The middle child is the boy. He’s wearing Dimitri's quilted pants. They’re much too long but he’s rolled up the cuffs as much as possible. The youngest, a little girl, is drowning in his quilted coat, its sleeves dragging on the ground. Her dirty, bare feet peek out from underneath the hem. Their faces are similar enough to be siblings, and gaunt.

The man pushes the boy to the ground and produces Dimitri’s gauntlets from his tunic. “Sorry, Y- Sir, but I managed to catch’em before they fenced anything.”

The older girl strips off the boots and throws them at Dimitri’s feet. “Take your stinky old boots. Now let my brother and sister go!” Her tone is defiant but her voice quavers.

Dimitri takes the gauntlets, his gaze going to the boy rising to his feet. The man tugs the quilted coat off the small girl and she runs to her sister. As the boy struggles free of the pants, Dimitri says, “I’m sorry. I-” His hands go to his belt but he doesn’t have one. His cufflinks are gone and he wasn’t wearing any other jewels when Cornelia imprisoned him. He studies the gold braid trim at his wrists. Dimitri reaches for his shoulder and grabs the appellettes adorning his tunic. They rip off easily.

Once the boy is free, he runs to his older sister and she gathers both her siblings close. 

Before they can leave Dimitri says, “Wait,” and holds the strips of golden embroidery out to them. “I need this armor. I wish there was more I could give you.” 

The children watch him warily, then the boy steps forward and lets Dimitri drop the gold embroideries into his hands. He clutches them to his chest and the children run away without a second look. Dimitri watches until they’re out of sight. Regret burns like a coal in his chest. 

The man clears his throat. 

Dimtri bends, grunting at the pain in his ribs and gathers his gear. Turning his back on the fire he says, “Could you bring me the rest of it, please?”

“We need to leave as soon as you’re done. If those kids go sell what you gave ‘em, the soldiers’ll be here _ before _ dawn,” he says when he returns with the cloak and armor.

Lacing up his gambeson, Dimitri pauses and glances up. The man is walking away. At the fire, three of the day-laborers catch his eye, then gather up their things and depart at a jog. Dimitri goes back to armoring himself. 

Several minutes later, he clasps the cloak about his shoulders. The man has returned, driving a cart loaded with bundles of wood. Dimitri lies down, wrapping his cloak around himself to muffle the noise. As the man piles the bundles on top to conceal him, Dimitri wonders what his father would say if he could see him now.  _ Probably that I’ve wasted enough time already _ . 

The cart lurches into motion. A good king would not leave his poorest people to scrape by through a war and a Faerghus winter. He is not a king anymore, however, much less a good one. He can’t save the living, only the dead. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I really love Dimitri's character and it was so fun to write about him again. 
> 
> If you liked what you read, you can learn out more about the album on twitter @fe3hfm or download it from their bandcamp. There's 22 amazing fan made tracks and tons of gorgeous art and writing on there.
> 
> Follow me @WriterSpice for my latest offerings.


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